Hero
by seriouscaseofthegayface
Summary: "You've always wanted to be a hero, ever since you were three and gazing with round eyes as Aladdin and Prince Eric and Hercules flew across your TV screen." 3x11. Klaine.


**A/N: Well, hi everybody! So I loved 'Michael' to pieces, especially this scene, and I wanted to experiment a bit with writing in second person narrative. Hope you like it!**

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><p><em>We can be heroes, just for one day.<em>

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><p>You've always wanted to be a hero, ever since you were three and gazing with round eyes as Aladdin and Prince Eric and Hercules flew across your TV screen. You've always wanted to be someone's knight in shining armour, to slay all of their giants, to protect and save and rescue them from anything and everything. Even in spite of your father's cutting claim that "there's no such thing as heroes who are queer", you've always, <em>always<em> wanted to be a hero. But up until now, you've never had your chance. You've never had someone to save.

And all of a sudden, like a bolt right out of the blue, _he_ appeared. And he's so unbelievably, heart-achingly perfect with his grey-blue-green eyes and his 'bitch, please' smirk and his soft, smooth skin. If ever there was someone worth saving, it's him. Ever since the day you first met him, when that beautiful face was streaked with tears and he poured his heart out to you over coffee, you've longed to ride up on a white horse and rescue him. And, while he may argue to the contrary, you feel like you've failed – you've never truly done anything to become his hero.

And right now, you're standing in line, opposite the familiar blue-and-red of your former friends and teammates, feeling more united with New Directions than ever before. You're practically dizzy with adrenaline – you can feel it coursing through your veins. You weave in and out of friends and foes alike, ignoring the pang of regret you feel every time you come face to face with a Warbler, singing and dancing with more energy than you ever have before. Once, just once, _he_ brushes past you, fingertips just grazing your hip in an action that's almost possessive as he glares at someone over your shoulder. You don't need to glance up to guess who he's looking at. The touch almost throws you as you recall his reaction to your outfit half an hour ago – something involving a concrete wall and an awful lot of kissing – and you blush at the vivid memory. But the moment passes and you plunge yourself back into the routine, battle, whatever it is, with even more gusto than before.

You're so totally absorbed that you almost miss it – miss the brown paper bag travelling through the sea of navy uniforms, miss the telltale red of the slushee cup, miss the glint of cold determination in Sebastian's eyes. But then, just as he grips the cup and readies himself, you see it.

Time stands still.

And then, it speeds up, and there's no time to think and you're pushing _him_ aside and the slushee is all over your face and it's _agony_, so painful that you can't bear it, and you're falling to the ground and all you can think is _it hurts, it hurts, oh god it hurts, makeitstop makeitstop MAKEITSTOP. _Somewhere light years away, there's the sounds of retreating footsteps and hushed voices. But all you can focus on is the unbelievable pain that is blossoming in your right eye and spreading to fill your entire being. Tears well up behind your screwed-shut eyelids, their sting adding even more to this excruciating agony. You don't have the strength to feel guilty or embarrassed as you whine and writhe on the ground, unable to think of anything else.

Soft hands – hands that you would recognise anywhere – trace up and down your arms, cupping your cheek and carding through your hair. The words that accompany them are simultaneously soothing and desperate as '_you'll be okay, I'm here, you'll be okay_' and '_God, Blaine, open your eyes, please look at me please please' _are chanted over and over in your ear. He is an anchor, holding you to reality while the pain tries to wrench you out of it. But eventually, as ambulance sirens pierce through the night and his hands scrabble up and down your body, the pain claws at you and drags you beneath the surface. Blackness. Oblivion. Peace.

When you wake up the next morning, high on medication with a totally awesome eyepatch and his hand clutching yours in a vice-tight grip, you can't bring yourself to regret your decision – even with scary words like 'scratched cornea' and 'surgery' being tossed about freely by doctors. Because he is crying and laughing and thanking you and reprimanding you for being his 'ridiculous, stupid, adorable hero'. _Hero_.

And in that moment, you realise you've become someone's knight in shining armour. Not in the way you'd always thought – some grand rescue, some great show of strength – but through doing what you've always been too scared to do, through standing your ground and protecting the boy you love. Through courage.

And as he smiles at you, eyes shining with unshed tears, you remember something your copious viewings of Disney movies taught you – a true hero isn't measured by the size of his strength, but by the strength of his heart.

And right now, as you smile right back at him, you feel like the truest hero there ever was.


End file.
